CHAPTER XXIII.
YETTA.
A year has passed since we stayed at Tátra-Fűred and Zakopane and made our journey across the plains. Since then we have been to England, and planted our krummholz and Carpathian flowers, nearly all of which are growing: even the former has taken quite kindly to its English home. And here we are back again in the Northern Tátra, for the second time, waiting for the diligence to take us on to the world-renowned salt-mines of Wieliczka.
The faithful András is again with us, and once more awaiting our return at Poprád with the same old lumbering vehicle that accompanied us on our former travels through Hungary, but which, having been patched up during our absence, has entered on a new lease of life.
In the square at Neumarkt the same Jews are standing idly about the pavement as when we were last here, and their sole occupation still appears to be to watch other people’s movements. Their interest however at the present time is centred in the departure of the yellow diligence in which we are just about to take our seats.
There was no coupé, so that we were obliged to journey in the intérieur, our fellow-travellers consisting of a gaunt man—a Pole—and a young woman whose nationality we could not determine, but from whose general appearance we imagined to be Rusniak.
The process of shaking down is one of no small difficulty, but we manage it at last, and are soon rattling along at the usual pace at starting. The young woman referred to was on her way to Lubień, wherever that place may be,—a fact made known to us by the name which was marked in scrambling letters on a large cardboard box that she persisted in carrying on her lap, and which half filled the diligence. I ventured to remonstrate with her on this proceeding, but she defended herself and her box so vigorously in her own particular vernacular, that if she had been carrying a boa-constrictor instead, there is not one of us who would have had the courage to make any further objection.
The other passenger was a man of grave and sedate countenance—as are nearly all the Poles—who seemed to find it impossible to dispose satisfactorily of his feet and legs. They proved a source of intense irritation to the young female who sat opposite, and I should say—judging from the painful attitude he assumed in his endeavours to stow them away—of no small dislocation to himself. But they too shook down at last, and with the exception of an occasional flash from her dark eyes, as every now and then he involuntarily trod upon her toes, all things went on smoothly enough.
The distance between Neumarkt and Wieliczka is forty-five miles, the latter being situated near the beautiful Vistula, which waters the plains of Gallicia, and which, hastening on its northern course, finally empties itself into the Baltic.
It was on these fertile pastures that the progenitors of the Poles had their original seat, dwelling on the rich banks of the Vistula; the word Pole itself being derived from the Slav word polska, meaning a level field, or plain.
The vast salt-fields of Wieliczka—which, according to a popular tradition, were accidentally discovered during a vigilant search made to recover a wedding-ring—lie immediately under the town of the same name; and, whilst extending to the great breadth of 10,000 feet in a north-easterly direction, penetrate to the depth of more than 1700 feet, and consist of four distinct stories.
Permission to explore this singular region was readily granted on application, and a guide and several boys carrying torches told off to accompany us. Having been solemnly robed in white cloaks, we took our places in a kind of lift, and were suddenly plunged into the mouth of the shaft, through which we descended to a distance of thirty-five fathoms, when we were landed on what may be called the topmost story of these wonderful excavations, and found ourselves standing in a vaulted chamber, which, but for the surrounding darkness, might have been the gigantic packing-room of some warehouse. Here men were busily occupied in filling barrels with salt for transmission to its various destinations. Our guide however, preceding us across this busy hive, led us through long galleries to inner halls and chambers hewn out of the salt-rock. There was no oppressive feeling in the air as we followed him through corridor after corridor; and the boy-guides illuminating our pathway with their broom torches lit up the white walls, which sparkled as though they had been set with myriads of gems. Neither was there any difficulty in our progress; we walked as comfortably as if we had been in the open air, till we reached a salt-lake, where we found a small flat-bottomed boat in readiness to take us across to the opposite side. As we stepped into it, clad in our white sepulchral vestments, and assisted by a dark and muscular Charon, it was difficult to believe we were not about to cross a veritable Styx: the black waters in which the torches were reflected; the curious dress of our attendants, with their singular Sláv physiognomies, together with our own ghost-like garments, all favoured the illusion. Occasionally a dull report was heard like the boom of cannon, which seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth as the miners blasted the rock in some distant excavation.
The salt is exceedingly compact, and, as a rule, unmixed—except near the surface—with any extraneous matter. These mines have been worked without cessation for more than 900 years, and yet the work of quarrying has still gone on in the different stories, until some of the chambers have attained the size of from 1000 to 2000 feet in width and 100 in height. Numerous fossils are continually being found imbedded in the rock, which is supposed to be of Tertiary formation.
One of the most interesting objects connected with these subterranean perforations is the fine Gothic chapel hewn out of the salt-rock, with its statues, enormous crucifix, and altar formed entirely of the same substance. One of the statues represents St. Cunegunda, the owner of the ring whose search was followed by such wonderful results, and on whose annual festival, as patroness of the mines, mass is said in the chapel in the presence of all the miners.
As in Hungary, the salt found here is a monopoly of the Austrian government, the out-turn from these mines alone being from fifty to sixty thousand tons annually.
On our return from Wieliczka, hiring a carriage, we start at once for the Dunajecz, which we were unable to visit on our last year’s sojourn in the Northern Tátra. As we bade adieu to Neumarkt, that place of sordid Jews and devout Catholics, the rugged peaks were beautiful in the morning light; not a cloud dimmed their outlines, which were sharply pencilled on the sky. The peasants of both sexes were at work in the fields, and all was pastoral and lovely. By this time, however, we were so frantically hungry that we fully endorsed Dr. Johnson’s sentiment that no view, however exquisite, is perfect unless it have an inn for its immediate foreground. There was, however, not one to be met with between this and Altendorf, a good four hours’ journey; and we decided therefore to stop at the house at which we slept last year on our way through this district, and where we were certain to meet with a hearty welcome.
It was not long before we approached the outskirts of the village, and found ourselves standing in the porch of the rambling old dwelling with its black wooden balcony, rendered familiar by our previous visit.
Entering the homely kitchen, we expected to be greeted like old friends and recognised with joyful acclamation, but there was no one in it but a young child and a priest seated on a settle, who rose as we entered, bowed, and, uttering the words “Servus domine spectabilis”—a form of salutation still frequently used by many of the priests of Hungary—left the room.
“Where is Yetta?” we inquire of the child. She could only speak Polish, but at the mention of the name she pointed to the church nearly opposite the house; and I could see that she meant “dead.”
“And the Grossvater?”
Again she pointed in the same direction.
“What! dead too?” I ask.
“Nein! nein! nicht todt” (no! no! not dead), she manages to say.
At this juncture, however, the Hausmutter came in from an adjoining apartment and demanded what was our pleasure.
“Martcha,” I cried, “do you not remember die Engländer who were here a year ago, and whom you promised never to forget?”
She passed her hand over her forehead, as if to dispel some intervening mist and recall some long-forgotten memory, and then burst into tears.
“Yetta is gone!” she exclaimed, so soon as her sobs would let her. “She died just three weeks ago, and her little baby lies with her in the Gottesacker yonder.”
“And the old man, your father, what of him?” we inquire eagerly. “Is he well?”
“Well, but quite childish,” was the reply. “Since Yetta died he has often wandered in his mind, and stands about the grave all day. We cannot keep him from it. Ah! if he would but go into the Kapelle, and say ‘Our Father,’ he might find comfort. But the trouble has hardened him. He will not think but that the good God was cruel to take her from him, and he so old.”
All this she told us as she busied herself in preparing the coffee and spreading the cloth for our breakfast, after which we go over to the Gottesacker with Martcha, where she says we are sure to find him.
He is leaning on a wall not far from a new-made grave, over which an iron crucifix has already been placed, and on which we can read, in bright gilt letters on the black, the name of Yetta Poschaska, followed by a word we cannot read and by the figures 19 and 1880.
As we approached, he raised his cap slightly, but did not recognise us, and then resumed his previous attitude with an almost vacant look, nothing in the expression of his face denoting emotion of any sort.
“I wish he would but come into the church,” whispered Martcha. “Perhaps he would, if you were to ask him: he has never been there since.”
“Her spirit is not there,” said the priest, who happened to be passing by, and pointing to the sod, “but up yonder, in dem blauen Himmel” (in the blue heaven).
“That is nothing to me,” he replied curtly; “I cannot see her there.”
“Come, father,” said Martcha, shaking him gently by the arm, “the two Engländer are here again, and want to see the church; won’t you show it to them?”
“Lasz mich in Ruh’!” (let me be!) he answered peevishly, “she would like to feel her old grandfather was near her. Show them the church yourself, can’t you?”
As we went into the quaint antique building, however, he followed slowly, and half involuntarily, as though unconsciously to himself he was glad of the companionship of human voices. We were observing the curious pictures and other objects surrounding the walls, when, looking round, we saw Martcha kneeling at one of the gaily decorated shrines, whilst the old man, following her example, was kneeling also, but quite mechanically as it seemed, his face wearing the same stolid look as before.
Leaving the church very softly, we wander across to the quiet territory of the dead. The great mountains, piled peak above peak as far as eye can reach, rise sheer from the village with its dark foreground of picturesque wooden houses.
As we linger in the little cemetery, which is thickly sown with graves, and think of the once busy hands and loving hearts now lying at rest beneath, we wonder how they must feel who have no belief in the spirit’s unceasing consciousness, and how terrible must be the blank when those they love are wrested from them; how terrible, too, the contemplation of their own short and ever-fleeting lives. And there was something so still and beautiful in the surroundings of this spot, with the great mountains in their solemn majesty keeping watch over the long green mounds, that made one feel somehow nearer heaven.
It was eleven o’clock by the time we bade farewell to Martcha, the old man, and the peaceful village, and were on our way again, through the broad valley that leads to the Rothe Kloster. As we approach the volcanic rocks, on one of which it stands proudly even in its decay, we discover that the whole scene is much grander when approached from the north than by the way we reached it from Altendorf. Opposite, on the other side of the river Dunajecz, on a lofty crag stands a castle, the two seeming to menace each other from their battlemented heights, whilst on the crest of the lower pinnacles are small chapels, each with its crucifix and shrine.
Sending our carriage on to await our arrival at a place called Scyavnicza (pronounced Schevaniska), we walk down to the river, and find two men awaiting us with a raft which had been previously ordered by the landlord of the inn at Zakopane. They are Poles, but are dressed like Slovaks, with broad felt hats and immense leather girdles.
The mountains of the Dunajecz here divide the Carpathian chain; those to the left being called the Pieninen.
The excursion down the Dunajecz is one of the most popular of the whole Tátra, the river passing through a narrow cleft in a rock, which it entirely fills; whilst the mountains and precipices on either side are so precipitous that they rise sheer out of the water, and do not admit even of the smallest footpath along its margin. The sun is just in that position in the heavens when, without having sunk towards the horizon, it throws shadows deep and long, and the narrow gorge—one side of which is immersed in profoundest shade, whilst the other is golden in the blaze of sunlight—presents a marvellous effect as the raft, formed of two small flat-bottomed boats lashed together, takes us through its windings.
The water of the Dunajecz is perfectly clear, the rocks and vegetation that rise above it being reflected in its depths with marvellous distinctness. In some portions the river flows silently along, and there is scarcely a ripple on its surface; in others, however, it becomes a rapid and boisterous torrent, covered with crests of foam. No one who visits the Tátra should fail to pass through this beautiful defile.
Emerging from the gorge at its northern outlet, we reach the village of Unter-Scyavnicza. It is the custom at this spot for young Polish girls to await the arrival of the rafts, and hold boughs and flower-garlands over the heads of the visitors as they step on shore. Most gladly would we have dispensed with this “function” had it been possible, but they had completely taken possession of us, and accompanying us across the white and pebbly shore of the river—which at this point takes a sharp bend to the right—they help us to climb its steep banks to the village, laughing merrily all the while and chattering together their (to us) hopelessly unintelligible Sláv dialect. I never beheld such a group of merry light-hearted sirens, as having been rewarded by a “consideration” they went scrambling back over the loose pebbles with their naked feet in the hope of crowning with unearned laurels some other unsuspecting hero of the gorge.
Leaving the village, we climb a steep hill and find ourselves surrounded by châlets built in such a truly ornamental style, that they look like sylvan palaces. There are baths here, much frequented in the season by Prussians as well as Russians and Poles.
On the top of the hill we recognise our carriage. The driver, having failed to find a place where he could bait the horses in the village below, had added to their fatigue by bringing them up the ascent in the vain hope of meeting with an álás; but, alas and alack-a-day! he was unsuccessful, and our only plan now is to take them on to a place called Kroschenko and there give them two hours’ rest; it will fortunately be on our way to Altendorf, where we shall now be compelled to pass the night.
We soon get into a good post-road, which we follow until we reach Kroschenko, a large village lying amongst verdant hills.
There are no fewer than 190,000 Jews in this province alone, and one would suppose from the number that are met with everywhere that the whole neighbourhood must be given over into the hands of the Israelites. Standing about the principal street, or sitting in groups on the benches beneath the houses, wherever we turn we see these black-robed gentry: old Jews with snow-white ringlets; middle-aged Jews with iron-grey ringlets; boy Jews with black ringlets—the last, dressed like their elders in the long greasy toga, forming the most incongruous-looking objects in the universe.
Even in this little place there is a government lottery. As we walk up the street we pass a small shop where spirits are sold. Close to the door on an oval shield we notice the hideous black eagle on the yellow ground, near which is a board with the numbers last drawn. Entering this den of iniquity—for so in truth it might be named—we find it full of women of all ages drinking the coarse white brandy of the district, which is distilled from potatoes. Some of them had already imbibed too freely of the unwholesome beverage, yet the shopkeeper, an old man of unmistakable type, a Jew of Jews and Hebrew of Hebrews, still pressed them to take more. Hastening from the close, dense atmosphere into the pure and open air of heaven, we breathe again, and pass more Jews, none of whom seem to have any occupation, for they sit or stand about the place smoking their long pipes, gossiping and talking of money. Whenever we happened to be near enough to hear their conversation, the most conspicuous words invariably were “tausend Gulden,” “hundert Gulden,” “Joch,” and “Kreuzer,” and involuntarily a feeling of intense pity filled our hearts for the race, so degraded and fallen, who were once called “the elect people of God,” and whose glorious country, the country of David and Solomon and Jesus, is subdued, crushed, and trampled under foot by an infidel power.
It was a relief to turn not only from the actual presence of these repulsive-looking Jews, but from the melancholy contemplation of their fallen estate, and find at the other end of the village a Christian church with its standard of the cross. Entering it, we gratefully inhale the fumes of incense which still pervade its precincts. No service is taking place, but the door stands open. Kneeling on the pavement here and there are lonely women, laying bare the secrets of their hearts to the Great Unseen, and who, having withdrawn for a while from the toil and business of their weary lives, have brought into the peaceful seclusion of these walls their many wants and burdens.
Like all we have hitherto seen in Gallicia, the church is full of banners and grotesque pictures. Hanging on the north wall was the picture of a saint whom we had not hitherto recognised as belonging to the calendar, and who, clad in the costume of ancient Rome, with sword and helmet, was engaged in pouring water upon flames,—an extremely popular saint, I should imagine, in a country like this, where fires are of such frequent occurrence.
As we pass once more beneath the Red Convent on our way to Altendorf, the sun is setting, and, blazing against its ruined walls, transfigures its blocks of tufa into molten gold. On the slopes of the serried hills, that glow like red-hot cinders, the small white patches of calcareous matter intermingled with the lava glisten like silver. But already the shadow thrown by the crumbling pile is creeping down the eastern slope, and, looking back for one last look as we cross the wooden bridge, the whole is swallowed up in gloom.